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“Greyson?”
“Yes?” He turned to face her. She looked so damned gorgeous with her hands planted on her hips as she glared at him.
“You’re cooking your own damned steaks.”
“Damn it!” Not even the internet could save Greyson from this disaster. He had no idea what the hell he was doing. He had managed to find and turn off the water mains and removed the hot-water tap from the bath. The guy at the hardware store had said that it was probably a bad washer that needed replacing and had given Greyson a quick explanation on how to replace said washer.
Unsure of the size needed, Greyson had bought all the sizes—sneakily ringing up only one on the receipt he had handed to Olivia. The rest he had paid for separately. He knew he was treading a fine line . . . any dishonesty, no matter how harmless it seemed, would be ill received by her right now. He knew that, but at the same time he tried to rationalize it to himself. She only needed one washer, and so she only had to pay for one. Not knowing the size had been on him, so it should be his expense.
Whatever—that was the least of his concerns right now. He had managed, with the help of several YouTube videos, to replace the washer and had even—after a lot of sweat, swearing, and even spilled blood, thanks to the fleshy part of his left palm getting scratched on some sharp edge or the other—gotten the tap screwed back on. But it wasn’t working. He had switched the water back on, and nothing. Not one drop.
There was a sharp rap on the bathroom door, which swung open without further warning. Olivia looked like she was about to say something, but her eyes narrowed when she saw his bare chest.
“Why are you always half-naked in my house, Greyson?” she asked, her voice peppered with annoyance and wobbling slightly. Her gaze seemed glued to his chest, and she swallowed heavily after asking the question.
“Sorry . . . I was hot in the hoodie and needed my T-shirt to mop up some water.”
“I have old towels you could have used. You didn’t have to ruin a brand-new shirt.”
“It was already ruined,” he admitted reluctantly, and she tilted her head in that damned appealing quizzical way of hers.
“What do you mean?”
He lifted his hand to show her the bloodied makeshift bandage wrapped around his palm, and she gasped before surging in from the doorway and coming to stand right in front of him, grabbing his hand in both of hers.
“You foolish man,” she muttered. “What did you do?”
Greyson didn’t reply, his eyes focused on the top of her downturned head as she unwrapped the bandage he had devised from a torn strip of his T-shirt. He hissed slightly when the cloth pulled against the dried blood on the edges of his cut.
“It’s bleeding again. Did you even rinse it?”
“Uh . . .” He forced himself to focus, his head swimming with both the scent of her and the pain in his hand. “No water.”
She lifted her face unexpectedly, nailing him with that whiskey-colored stare of hers, and he inhaled a shuddering breath at the beauty in those eyes.
“Which reminds me! Why is there no water, Greyson?”
He barely heard her question, his eyes lost in hers.
“God, you’re so damned beautiful,” he said beneath his breath. He lifted his free hand to trace the silky curve of her cheek with his knuckles.
“Don’t,” she said quietly, one of her hands releasing his injured one to halt the movement.
“Olivia. I’ve missed you so much.”
“No, I think you mean you’ve missed so much. So much, Greyson. That first kick, when I felt her and knew she was in there and alive. The first ultrasound, when I heard the incomparable rapid whooshing of her heartbeat. It was . . . it was so indescribable.”
“I know. I know, Olivia. And it kills me to have missed all of that.”
“You don’t understand what it did to me, Greyson. You don’t know . . .”
“Tell me,” he invited her, and she shuddered and closed her eyes, tears—which he had seen shimmering in that golden gaze—overflowing to streak down her cheeks. Greyson made a dismayed sound in the back of his throat and clumsily wiped at the moisture. The first tears he’d seen from her since that night in the hospital. Those tears still haunted his nightmares, and these would torment his waking hours. He hated making her cry. He fucking despised it.
She shook her head in response to his invitation and rested her forehead on his naked chest, just a few centimeters above his heart. He palmed the back of her head, his fingers entwining in the thick, soft curls of her hair. He kissed the top of that honeysuckle-scented head, and she lifted her tear-drenched face to look at him. His hand moved to cup the curve of her cheek, and before he could think of what he was doing, his lips dropped to hers, claiming her mouth in a hungry kiss. A kiss that offered comfort and asked for the same in return.
